


Make It To Me

by marcasite



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Episode: s08e01 Deep Breath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:34:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcasite/pseuds/marcasite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to pick up a relationship where it left off when you're really starting it all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It To Me

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a few years since I have written DW fic, or fic in general. I wrote this shortly after Deep Breath and have been sitting on it, unsure. Please feel free to give me any feedback to help me get my mind around these two. Thanks!

Magic versus the fantasy that is reality. She now knows that there is a difference between the two. It wasn’t an easy lesson to learn. She stares at this new old face and can count the endless end that lies between them.

It’s odd, really. She is lost and found at exactly the same time and it twists at her, pulling the chords that hold her still. The line between what she thinks she had and what’s new pushes at her and she knows that eventually she’ll have to push back.

She knows that she’s not quite ready.

 

The nights are the are the hardest for her; its quiet solace beckoning to her. She rarely stays on the Tardis anymore, her room missing and found as often as she was. She left so much of everything behind, memories encased in a man that is no longer hers to save. Discarded, she believes; much like everything that she once clung to. But the nights she does stay, the nights that are hers to shape; she dreams.

In her dreams, she sees a flash of green and echoes of a song that was hers to carry. His Impossible Girl. She’s back on their Tardis, chasing him about as he rattles off destinations. She can feel the whisper of ancient times, humming beneath her fingers as she brushes her hand against the console; willing her to come alive again. Come alive and carry her back to him. But it’s quiet and she’s left with bitter taste that causes her lips to curl and the heat of unshed tears to burn. 

On these nights, when there is no one there to see, she can slide back to their moments. There a touch to the cheek, a kiss to the forehead and she dreams of sky carnivals and motorbike rides through London. She begged him to remember her, through all of time she begged, much like this Doctor begged her to see him. The irony doesn’t escape her but she doesn’t want to waste one single moment. 

Because morning always comes too soon and she has to start all over again. 

 

She misses the echo of his laughter the most.

If she’s still and quiet long enough, she thinks she can hear the shades of it dance its way through the halls of the Tardis, up and down the empty corridors. She closes her eyes and holds himself steady in order to keep his manic laughter near. She smiles as she clings to the memory of his laughter, wanting to hold onto it for as long as she can.

But inevitably it fades away, drifting away into mist and she’s left with nothing but the memory. Her new Doctor, this tall, quiet man doesn’t laugh, rarely smiles. She hates that she compares them, like there is a competition between the same men. She understands how bizarre that is but can’t stop herself.

And his eyes tell her that he knows.

 

She knows that they are waiting for something; that there will be that defining moment and she will exclaim, “ah-ha, I knew it” and they will settle back to being back. But until then, she knows that he is watching her; eyes encased in a reflection of the cold that seem to be sweeping through them both. 

Watching. Always watching. 

She knows; deep down inside where her broken heart has settled, that this man is her Doctor. He is her clever boy and he does remember her. She tells herself that she has to gather together those broken pieces before she loses everything, everything that means anything. She needs to face some truths about herself, needs to finally _finally_ talk to her Doctor, before it's too late.

But it's hard to pick up a relationship where it left off when you're really starting it all over again. 

 

His eyes follow her around the Tardis and her hand itches to touch him, brush her fingertips against his coat sleeve. She tamps down the impulse, as unsure with him as she was sure with the last. She sighs, tearing her gaze away calling herself a million different cowards. She hates the reproach in them, the way they bear the strains of hurt and apathy. Weeks in and she is still trying to understand him; wanting to have that conversation but everything is second guessed and laced with bottomless meanings.

He asked her to see him, to look into the face of a new man and see that he was indeed, standing in front of her. She thought she had, she thought she understood and even as she reached up to pull him against her, the echoes of what was missing was only amplified. She stays with him because she needs him and when she is not lying to herself, she loves him. He told her, that same day, that he was not her boyfriend and how quickly she grew defensive about her feelings for him. Harder still was absorbing the impact of his next words as they pushed against her, claiming what space was left in her chest. 

Her mistake. His mistake. Their mistake.

 

There’s a time and a place.

There’s a time and a place to say that maybe she’s not completely lost her mind; it doesn’t come, it won’t come, and she prefers to stay away, watching him from afar. It’s curious now how he seems to seek her out, whether the motivations maintain to be appropriate or not. But. 

He kisses her first.

She knows it’s a product of his sudden need for them to be fixed, but the explanation will be too long-winded and too old for them to really get into it. He seems to step around it and into something different. Maybe she lets him. Maybe she shouldn’t care as much but she does.

She stops, too long, and her hand crosses over her mouth. She presses her thumb over her lip, amused, and then turns to watch him. His gaze is steady, but nondescript. His arms shift over his chest and there’s a quick flash of amusement over his mouth, tense but there. It was never going to be fixed with words, her efforts would have been useless she knows now. For the first time, she understands that as much as he was dreading her touch, he needed her touch. She had been unconsciously withholding the very thing that could change them.

The ice that’s surrounded her heart, her whole inside, ever since that night on Trenzalore starts to melt.


End file.
